


We ourselves must walk the path

by harnatano (orphan_account)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Daddy Issues, F/M, and granddad, and sweet baby tyelpe with his dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/harnatano





	We ourselves must walk the path

Laurelin’s light was bathing the garden and the soft wind was kissing the leaves in the tree above his head, but the young Noldo wasn’t paying attention to any of the beautiful gifts Aman had to offer to his senses, his mind focusing on the ingenious system in front of him. 

There were cubes, and spheres and another form he had never encountered before, and his father had shown him how he had to insert these wooden objects into wholes of the same forms. It didn’t take long before Celebrimbor found where to place the spheres. The cubes had been more rebellious, but after many attempts, the young Elda had finally managed to find the perfect places. Yet, there was still this last one, the one with the three pointy parts, and a few empty wholes in front of him. The infuriating object seemed not to fit in any of them, whether it was turned on one side or another, and Celebrimbor started to lose hope.

Looking up at his father who was sitting on the bench beside him, the young Elf let out a soft cry to express his frustration. He had understood that grown ups used their voices to express their feelings, they used strange sounds and made their tongues roll behind their lips to create words, but the child hadn’t managed to control this power yet. He could moan, and cry and burp at will, he could laugh and scream too, but despite his numerous attempts, he had never managed to pronounce any word.

His father had his eyes fixed on a book, his fingers patting calmly againt the cover, and as he heard the soft cry, Curufin frowned and glanced at his son.

“What is it, Tyelpe?” He asked slowly, putting his book aside. “What are you trying to say?”

With a another fustrated cry, the elfling hit the ground with his toy, determined to make his father understand how disappointing the game was.

“Oh I see…. You don’t know where to put this one, do you?” Curufin said with a soft laugh. Pursing his lips, the child looked down at the small object between his fingers before hanging it to his father. The game was a gift from him, and Celebrimbor suspected him to be the one who created it. As an obvious consequence, his father was the only one who could help him.

But Curufin shook his head and refused to take the toy. “You must find the solution yourself, Tyelpë. I’m certain you can do it.“

And as the young Noldo understood that his father was refusing to help him, that he was leaving him alone with this terrible riddle, the child’s throat tightened, and warm tears filled his grey eyes. "A'ya….” He tried, unsure of the correct pronounciation of the word.

"Atya is right here, Tyelpë.” Curufin smiled as he reached out, his thumb gently wipping off the tears which had started to slide down the small face. “But you must keep on trying. I cann–’

Before he could finish his sentence, Celebrimbor was already crying, loud cries that echoed in the garden. Curufin left the bench and kneeled down before his son, his hands gently pulling him closer in a vain attempt to stop the cries. But the child was furious, and boldly he pulled away from his father’s soft embrace. Confused, Curufin blinked and raised up his hands in a sign of peace.

"A'yaaaaaaa!” With his tiny fingers still wrapped around the toy, Celebrimbor did the only thing he could do to express his frustration and anger: he cried and screamed and hit the ground with his tiny fists. “A’yaaa!”

“Tyelpë please.” Curufin sighed, unsure of what to do to soothe his son’s anger. 

“You have everything to learn.” The familiar voice had echoed behind him, a gentle but firm voice, filled with what seemed to be amusement.

Curufin turned and looked up at his father, a deep frown on his forehead, but Fëanor ignored him and walked straight to his gandson, scooped him between his arms, and cradled him against his chest. “Little one, shhh…. Tell me what the matter is. Is your father still incapable to understand what you need?” 

“Atar.” Curufin began, standing up. He knew is father was only playing - the amused gaze Fëanor was giving him betrayed it - but as embarassment and a certain form of shame invaded him, Curufin felt like he was the child caught in the act. “Everything is alright, Tyelpë is only demanding some attention.”

Gently stroking Celebrimbor’s hair, Fëanor frowned. “How so? Are you not attentive enough, Curvo? That’s quite surprising from you.”

“He’s furious because of his game. He wanted me to help him.” Curufin sighed reaching out to take his son from his father’s arms. But Fëanor tightened his grip around Celebrimbor and turned away, delibarately showing his son that he had no intention to let go of Celebrimbor.

“Atar… Did you not have things to do today?”

“Everything has been done.” Fëanor stated with a smile, sitting down on the fresh grass, in front of the game, and putting his grandson on his lap. Celebrimbor had stopped crying, but soft sobs were still leaving his lips as he took one of Fëanor’s black strands in his free hand, and brought them to his mouth, the other hand still clasped around his the triangular object . “So, what do we have here, Tyelpë?”

With a noise that sounded like a protest, Celebrimbor handed his grandfather the disappointing toy, and Fëanor took it with a laugh. “Is this the cause if your distress? Let me look at it.“

Eyes wide open on his grandfather, Celebrimbor watched him closely as he took the object, and agape he observed the way Fëanor found the perfect place for it. "Problem solved.”

“He should have done it himself.” Curufin growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why?” Fëanor asked, genuinely surprised by the reply. “He’s still young, he needs someone to look after him and to help him overcome his problems.”

“He must learn to face the problems alone.” The young father replied impatiently. “I will not always be here for him.”

“Really?” Curious and slightly sarcastic, Fëanor kept his eyes on Curufin and one arm around Celebrimbor. “Do you plan to leave him alone?”

Curufin rolled his eyes, merely trying to hide his impatience. “Of course not. But he can’t expect me to alway be here for him.”

“Am I not always here for you, Curvo?”

He froze, looking down at Fëanor whose eyes was now filled with confusion. “That’s not what I meant, Atar. Tyelperinquar must learn independence, as we all do, and you aren’t helping.”

“Do you intent to teach me how to raise children?”

At the comment, Curufin winced and turned away. “Tyelpë is my son, not yours.”

“And you are my son, and still unable to take care of yourself. I don’t expect you to take of your son alone.” Fëanor commented, ignoring the way Celebrimbor was chewing his hair. “Where is your wife?”

“Spending the day with her sister.” His father could see crystal clear through him, and he knew how to make him face the truths he was incapable, or unwilling to see. And this particular gift was but an infuriating blessing. 

Pondering Fëanor’s words, Curufin watched him take something from his pocket. “What are you… Atar no!”

Ignoring his son’s protest, Fëanor gave his grandson a small figurine of a cat, delicately painted in white and brown. “Here Tyelpë, wipe off your tears now and greet your new friend.”

A wide smile dancing on his lips, Celebrimbor took the gift with clumsy hands and directly brought it to his mouth - He had always been convinced that all beautiful things tasted good.

“Atar, he doesn’t need more toys. With you and Amil and my brothers, plus my wife’s family, he receives at least two gifts a day!”

"Let my spoil my grandson, Curvo.” Fëanor grinned. “And allow him to enjoy his childhood. Be patient.“

Pursing his lips, Curufin let out a frustrated sigh. "And why should I let you spoil him? You never spoiled me, after all.”

Fëanor slowly turned his head to glance at his son, a mix of amusement and surprise in his grey eyes. “I didn’t spoil you?’ He repeated with a chuckle. "Curufinwë, what sort of odd memories have you kept from your childhood? your mother spent her days saying I spoiled you too much, as I spoiled all my sons. And I really do not see how that is a problem.”

Eyeing his father, Curufin didn’t reply and for the first time in many years, a childlike expression was on his face; the expression of a pouting child who refused to admit an obvious truth.

"Curufinwë, I did spoil my children and I am proud of it, for I spoiled them accordingly to my love for them. In other words: way too much.”

Staring at Fëanor, Curufin was speechless. Of course he knew his father loved him, but this words hadn’t left his lips in many years, and he had tent to forget how it felt to hear them. Proudly, he tried to bit back the smile that threatened to come to his lips, but as Fëanor looked back at him tenderly, as Celebrimbor crawled from his grandfather’s lap to reach his father’s leg, Curufin’s pouting wince turned slowly into a smile, and he scooped his son carefully.

In his father’s arms, Celebrimbor made himself comfortable, his free hand resting on Curufin’s shoulder as the other cradled the small horse against his chest. Allowing the silence to spread over them, Curufin pressed a soft kiss on his son’s head and wiped the dirt off his trousers.

The child smiled against his father, comforted and safe and loved, and after a small yawn, he rested his head on Curufin’s shoulder and spoke with a soft but confident voice. “Atya.”


End file.
